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NATHANIEL HAWTHOKNE 



MAYNARD'S ENGLISH CLASSIC SERIES.— No. 203 

THE SNOW-IMAGE 

THE GREAT STONE FACE, LITTLE 
DAFFYDOWNDILLY 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 



<friTH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH AND NOTES 




NEW YORK 
MAYNARD, MERRILL, & CO. 

New Series, No. 29. January 29, 1898. Piiblif^hed Semi-weekly. Suhscription 
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In the preparation of this series the authors have had one object! 
cleaily in view — to so develop the study of the Enghsh language asJ 
to present a complete, progressive course, from the Spelling-Book to 
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Teachers are earnestly invited to examine these books, 

MaYNARD, Merrill, & Co., Publishers, 

29, 31, and 33 East Nineteenth St, New York. 

Copyright, 1898, by Mavnard, Merrill, & Co. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



Nathaniel Hawthobne came of a stern, New England 
ancestry. The founder of the family in this country, William 
Hatliorne (so spelled, but pronounced nearly as afterwards 
changed by Hawthorne), emigrated from England in 1630, 
and became a man of some prominence in the new country, 
a magistrate and deputy in the colonial assembly. His son, 
Judge John Hawthorne, was prominent in the Salem witch- 
craft persecutions, and earned an unenviable reputation for 
harsh judgments. His nature is well shown by the following 
account of a trial at which he presided. 

Of one accused woman brought before him, the husband 
wrote : " She was forced to stand with her arms stretched 
out. I requested that I might hold one of her hands, but it 
was declined me ; then she desired me to wipe the tears from 
her eyqs, which I did ; then she desired that she might lean 
herself on me, saying she should faint. Justice Hathorne 
replied she had strength enough to torture these persons, and 
she should have strength enough to stand. I repeating some- 
thing against their cruel proceedings, they commanded me to 
be silent, or else I should be turned out of the room." 

The third son of Judge Hathorne was "Farmer Joseph," 
who lived and died peaceably at Salem. Joseph's fifth son, 
" Bold Daniel," became a privateersman in the Revolutionary 
War. Daniel's third son, Nathaniel, was born in 1775, and 
was the father of our author. 

Hawthorne's father was a sea-captain, reserved, melancholy^ 
and stern , and said to be fond of reading and of children. He 
married Elizabeth Manning, a descendant of Richard Manning, 

3 



4 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

of Dartmouth, England, and at Salem, Massachusetts, on 
July 4, 1804, Nathaniel Hawthorne, the author, was born. 

His father died four years after, and Hawthorne was 
brought up by his grandfather Manning, who paid for his 
education. 

In later life Hawthorne wrote that " one of the peculi- 
arities " of his boyhood was " a grievous disinclination to go 
to school." He appears to have been an adventurous boy, 
fond of all outdoor exercises, until an accident in playing ball 
injured his foot. This lameness lasted a long while and re- 
stricted his boyish activity so that he took to reading as a 
pastime. His letters written at this time contain frequent 
allusions to books, and also occasional scraps of poetry. 

In 1821 Hawthorne entered Bowdoin College, where he had 
the good fortune to be a classmate of Longfellow. Another 
classmate was Jonathan Cilley, afterwards a member of Con- 
gress. Franklin Pierce, afterwards President of the United 
States and an intimate friend, was at that time a sophomore. 

These friendships appear to have been about all that he 
gained from his college life. "I was an idle student," he 
wrote in after years, " negligent of college rules and the Pro- 
crustean details of academic life, rather choosing to nurse my 
own fancies than to dig Greek roots and be numbered among 
the learned The bans." His extreme shyness is shown by the 
fact that he regularly paid fines rather than make declama- 
tions. 

Hawthorne graduated in 1825, and returned to Salem, where 
he settled in the gloomy old family mansion and began to 
write ; at first tentatively, and later with the avowed purpose 
of making literature his profession. In his " Note Book,'* 
under date of October 4, 1840, he says: "Here I sit in this 
accustomed chamber where I used to sit in days gone by. . . . 
Here I have written many tales, — many that have been burned 
to ashes, many that doubtless deserve the same fate. . . . and 
here I sat a long, long time, waiting patiently for the world 
to know me, and sometimes wondering why it did not know 
me sooner, or whether it would ever know me at al^ — at 
least, till I were in my grave." 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 5 

He finally published some tales in the magazines, but these 
hardly served the purpose of bringing him fairly before the 
public. " It was like a man talking to himself in a dark 
place," he said. 

It was not until March, 1837, that Hawthorne succeeded in 
getting a volume, the first series of " Twice Told Tales," pub- 
lished. It brought him an excellent review by Longfellow, 
of which a portion is given in the " Critical Opinions," and 
brought him before the world of letters as an accredited 
author ; but financially was not fortunate, as the sales barely 
paid tlie cost of publication. Before long, however, the young 
author's necessities were relieved by an aiDjiointment to the 
Boston Cvistom House as weigher and ganger at a salary of 
$1,200. This was hardly a congenial occupation for a man of 
a poetical temperament, but Hawtliorne made the best of it, 
and, at the end of his tenure of office (he was removed by a 
change of administration) had saved one thousand dollars 
from his salary. 

Carlyle at this time was speaking to the youtli of America 
through Emerson witli a voice of thunder, and transcendent- 
alism was abroad in the land. Hawthorne's friends, tlie Pea- 
bodys, were Emersonian enthusiasts, and it was probably 
through their influence that he was drawn into the Brook 
Farm community, wliich seemed to promise an economical 
retreat, where he could find congenial society and the leisure 
to write. He embarked his thousand dollars in this enter- 
prise, and arrived at Brook Farm, April 12, 1841. This com- 
munity was an unconventional society of cultivated men and 
women, sick of politics, and hoping by a communal existence 
to release much time for the development of their individual 
genius. 

Hawthorne remained in the community about a year. But 
before he left he had made the discovery that he had never 
been really there in heart. " The real Me was never an asso- 
ciate of the community ; there has been a spectral Appearance 
there, sounding the horn at daybreak, and milking the cows, 
and hoeing potatoes, and raking hay, toiling in the sun, and 
doing me the honor to assume my name. But this spectre 



6 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

was not myself." But the great eye of Hawthorne was there, 
and every scene was pictured on it. It was the sufficient 
raison d'etre of Brook Farm that it produced that truly Amer- 
ican novel " The Blithedale Eomance." 

Hawthorne was married in 1843, and went to live at " The 
Old Manse "' at Concord, Massachusetts. Here he spent four 
happy years, enjoying the society of Emerson, Thoreau, 
Ellery Channing, — who, Emerson said, wrote " j)oetry for 
poets " — and of other cultivated men and women. 

In 1846 Hawthorne was appointed Surveyor of Customs at 
Salem, Massachusetts. He held this position until 1849, but, 
as the office must have been irksome to him, and the Salem 
people did not treat him with any geniality, he was probably 
not sorry when a change of administration ousted him from 
his position. 

Once more he settled down to steady literary work, with 
the result that in 1850 "The Scarlet Letter" appeared, and 
achieved such a marked success that he was enabled to re- 
move to Lenox, Massachusetts. His next book was '"The 
House of Seven Gables." In 1851 he removed to West New- 
ton, Massachusetts, where " The Blithedale Romance " was 
written, and in 1853 he moved again to Concord. 

In 1853 Hawthorne was appointed United States Consul to 
Liverpool, and for six years nothing appeared from his pen. 
His stay in England seems to have been a failure. He met 
none of the great men of letters, then so numerous in Eng- 
land, except the Brownings. He never really liked the Eng- 
lish, and after they had read his " Our Old Home," they very 
generally felt the same toward him. It is in this volume that 
he describes Englishwomen as made up of steaks and sirloins, 
a remark which not unnaturally stirred up a strong feeling of 
resentment in England. 

After leaving Liverpool in 1857, Hawthorne and his family 
travelled south, and in January, 1858, they settled in Rome. 
Except for the illness of his eldest daughter, the next two 
years were among the happiest of Hawthorne's life. He en- 
joyed the society he met in Rome ; W. W. Story the eminent 
sculptor, the historian Motley, William CuUen Bryant, Mrs. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 7 

Jameson and other cultivated people being his intimates. He 
had come to Rome, however, merely as a pleasant excursion, 
having little or no knowledge of art, and no taste for ruins, so 
that it was some time before he began to take Rome seriously. 
The stay bore fruit when he returned to England on his way 
back to America, in the form of " The Marble Faun," probably 
his most popular book. 

In 1860 Hawthorne settled again in Concord with the inten- 
tion of giving himself up to his literary work, but it was not 
to be for long. Presently the war broke out, and he became 
gloomy and unable to work, and in 1864 he died when on a 
trip to New Hampshire with his old friend, Franklin Pierce. 
He was buried at Concord, on May 24, 1864. 

This slight sketch may fitly close by a description of Haw- 
thorne's personal appearance by his friend and biographer, 
Moncure D. Conway. 

" He impressed me — the present writer — as of much nobler 
presence than formerly, and certainly he was one of the finest- 
looking of men. I observed him closely at a dinner of the 
Literary Club, in Boston, the great feature of which was the 
presence of Hawthorne, then jus*^^ from Europe (July, 1860), 
His great athletic frame was softened by its repose, which was 
the more striking beside the vivacity of Agassiz, at whose 
side he sat — himself a magnificent man in appearance. Haw- 
thorne's massive brow and fine aquiline nose were of such 
commanding strength as to make the mouth and chin seem a 
little weak by contrast. The upper lip was hidden by a thick 
moustache ; the under lip was somewhat too pronounced, per- 
haps. The head was most shapely in front, but at the back 
was singularly flat. This peculiarity appears in a bust of 
Hawthorne now in possession of his friend and banker, Mr. 
Hooker, at Rome. It is by Phillips, and is especially interest- 
ing as representing the author in early life, before the some- 
what severe mouth was modified by a moustache. The eyes 
were at once dark and lucid, very large but never staring, 
incurious, soft and pathetic as those of a deer. When ad- 
dressed, a gracious smile accompanied his always gentla 
reply, and the most engaging expression suffused his warm 



8 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

brown face. The smile, however, was sweet only while ini 
the eyes ; when it extended to the mouth it seemed to give.j 
him pain. There must have been battles between those softf 
eyes and this mouth. His voice was sweet and low, but sug- 
gested a reserve of quick and powerful intelligence. In con- 
versation, the trait that struck me most was his perfect candor. 
There was no faintest suggestion of secrecy. I have a suspi- 
cion that his shyness was that of one whose heart was without 
bolts or bars, and who felt himself at the mercy of every 
' interviewer ' that might chance to get hold of him." 



I 



CRITICAL OPINIONS 



He was a beautiful, natural, original genius, and his life 
lad been singularly exempt from worldly preoccupations 
md vulgar efforts. It had been as pure, as simple, as un- 
;ophisticated, as his work. He had lived primarily in his 
lomestie affections, which were of the tenden-st kind ; and 
:hen — without eagerness, without pretension, but with a 
jreat deal of quiet devotion — in his charming art. His 
ivork will remain ; it is too original and exquisite to pass 
iway ; among the men of imagination he will always have 
iiis niche. No one has had just that vision of life, and no 
3ne has had a literary form that more successfully ex- 
pressed his vision. He was not a moralist, and he was not 
simply a poet. The moralists are weightier, denser, rich- 
er, in a sense ; the poets are more purely inconclusive 
and irresponsible. He combined in a singular degree the 

pontaneity of the imagination with a haunting care for 
moral problems. Man's conscience was his theme, but he 
saw it in the light of a creative fancy which added, out of 
its own substance, an interest, and, I may almost say, an 
importance. — Hawthorne by Henry James — English Men of 
Letters Series. 

The art of story-telling is manifold, and its charm de- 
pends greatly upon the infinite variety of its applications. 
And yet, for that very reason, there are moods in which 
one wishes that the modern story-teller would more fre- 
quently lead us away from the commonplace regions of 
newspapers and railways to regions where the imagination 
can have fair play. Hawthorne is one of the few eminent 
writers to whose guidance we may in such moods most 
safely entrust ourselves. . . . 



10 CRITICAL OPINIONS 

Of Twice-Told Tales Hawthorne says : " The book r( 
quires to be read in the clear brown twilight atmosphei 
in which it was written ; if opened in the sunshine it is aj 
to look exceedingly like a volume of blank pages." . . . 

We see him trying various experiments to hit off thf, 
delicate mean between the fanciful and the prosaic whic 
shall satisfy his taste and be intelligible to the outsid, 
world. Sometimes he gives us a fragment of historicj 
romance, as in the story of the stern old regicide who sue 
denly appears from the woods to head the colonists c 
Massachusetts in a critical emergency ; then he tries hi, 
hand at a bit of allegory, and describes the search for thi| 
mythical carbuncle which blazes by its inherent splendc 
on the face of a mysterious cliff in the depths of the uil 
trodden wilderness, and lures old and young, the worldl 
and the romantic, to waste their lives in the vain effort t 
discover it — for the carbuncle is the ideal which mocks ou 
pursuit, and may be our curse or our blessing. Then pe?, 
haps we have a domestic piece — a quiet description of 
New England country scene — touched with a grace whici 
reminds us of the creators of Sir Roger de Coverley or thl| 
Vicar of Wakefield. Occasionally there is a fragment o 
pure diablerie, as in the story of the lady who consults th! 
witch in the hollow of the three hills ; and moi'e frequent! 
he tries to work out one of those strange psychologic; 
problems which he afterwards treated with more fullnef 
of power.— IZbur.s in a Library, Leslie Stephen. 

Art, subjectively considered, is the means adopted b 
the artist to tell what is in him ; and Hawthorne, up to tb 
epoch of " The Scarlet Letter," was moved to utter himse 
upon three classes of subjects — philosophy, history, an 
that derivative and sublimation of the two which is calle 
Story. But so strong in him was the instinct of story th£ 
it colored and shaped his treatment of the former topics 
His essays take the form of allegories, and his historicc' 
pieces assume the aspect less of narratives than of pit 
tures. He cannot be satisfied with simply telling us whe; 



CRITICAL OPINIONS 11 

appened ; lie must bring us to look upon the scene as 
ansacted in his imagination. . . . 

It might be objected to an analysis such as has been in- 
icat>.d (rather than made) in the foregoing pages, that 
[awthorne is substantially a romancer, — atelier of tales, — 
nd that, therefore, his excursions into other regions are 
f little practical significance. But the story was never 
le chief object in Hawthorne's writings; the skeleton 
aving once been designed, he immediately forgot all about 
-,, and devoted all his energies to the flesh-and-blood of^ 
16 composition. And this flesh and blood is no mere ap- 
'endage ; it is wrought out of the author's very life. In 
rder that the outward beauty of the complete work may 
e adequately appreciated, it is, therefore, necessary to 
'nderstand something ol ;ts inner organization and secret 
■enesis. It is alive and has the inexhaustible fascination 
f life — the depth beyond depth. It is illuminated by 
magination and graced by art ; but imagination only ren- 
ers the informing truth more conspicuous, and art is the 
arm which symmetrical truth inevitably assumes. In 
hort, save as i-egards the surest externals nothing in Haw- 
horne's fiction is fictitious. And therefore we lose what 
3 best in them unless we learn how to read between the 
ines — how to detect the writer's own lineaments beneath 
he multifarious marks wherewith he veils them. — Julian 
lawthorne, The Century, May 1886. 
But true poetry (from which higher fiction differs only 
Q form) takes for the theatre of its creations space unoc- 
upied by grosser shapes and material agencies. Its prov- 
nce lies beyond, beneath and within the world of matter and 
•f fact. It leaves things as they are ; bvit breathes into them 
L vital glow, writes upon them the image of the unseen 
ind spiritual, and robes them in a softer light, a richer 
harm, a purer beauty. This is the character of the Tales 
»efore us. For this we prize and admire them. They are 
•oetry from the deepest fountains of inspiration. Their 
nterest consists in the development not of events but of 



12 . CRITICAL OPINIONS 

sentiment. Many of them have neither plot nor catastrO' 
phe, indeed, are not tales in the common sense of thf 
word; but are simply flower-garlands of poetic feeling 
wreathed about some e very-day scene or object. 

We thank and love the man who draws aside for us the 
veil between sense and spirit, who reveals to us the inward 
significance, the hidden harmonies of common things, who 
bathes in poetic tints the prosaic elements of daily life. 
We welcome such a work and deem it truly great, however 
humble or unostentatious the form in which itis wrought. 
We feel that Mr. Hawthorne has done this for us and we 
thank him. We thank him also for having given uj 
creations so full of moral purity and beauty. — A. P. Pea^ 
body, Christian Examiner, Nov., 1838. 

The spell of mysterious horror which kindled Haw-| 
thorne's imagination was a test of the character of his 
genius. The mind of this child of witch-haunted Salem 
loved to hover between the natural and the supernatural, 
and sought to tread the almost imperceptible and doubtful 
line of contact. He instinctively sketched the phantoms 
that have the figures of men, but are not human ; the elusive, 
shadowy scenery which, like that of Gustave Dore's pic 
tures, is nature sympathizing in her forms and aspects with 
the emotions of terror or awe which the tale excites. His 
genius broods entranced over the evanescent phantasma- 
goria of the vague debatable land in which the realities of 
experience blend with ghostly doubts and wonders. 

But from its poisonous flowers what a wondrous perfume 
he distilled ! Through his magic reed, into what penetrat-j 
ing melody he blew that deathly air ! His restless fancy 
seemed to seek a sin that was hopeless, a cruel despairj 
that no faith could throw off. Yet his naive and well- 
poised genius hung over the gulf of blackness, and peered 
into the pit with the steady nerve and simple face of a boy 
The mind of the reader follows him with an aching won- 
der and admiration, as the bewildered old mother forester 
watched Undine's gambols. As Hawthorne describes Mir-J 



CRITICAL OPINIONS 13 

iam in "The Marble Faun," so may the character of his 
genius be most truly indicated. Miriam, the reader will 
remember, turns to Hilda and Kenyon for sympathy. 
Yet it was to little purpose that she apjjroached the edge 
of the voiceless gulf between herself and them. Standing 
on the utmost verge of that dark chasm, she might stretch 
out her hand and never clasp a hand of theirs ; she might 
strive to call out, ' Help, friends ! help !' but, as with dream- 
ei's when they shout, her voice would perish inaudibly in 
the remoteness that seemed such a little way. This per- 
ception of an infinite shivering solitude, amid which w^e 
cannot come close enough to human beings to be warmed 
by them, and when they turn to cold, chilly shapes of mist, 
is one of the most forlorn results of any accident, misfor- 
tune, crime, or peculiarity of character, that puts an indi- 
vidual ajar with the world. — G. W. Curtis, North American 
Beview, Oct. 1864. 

But we may often recognize, even when we cannot 
express in words, the strange family likeness which exists 
in characteristics which are superficially antagonistic. 
The man of action may be bound by subtle ties to the 
speculative metaphysician; and Hawthorne's mind, 
amidst the most obvious differences, had still an affinity to 
his remote forefathers. Their bugbears had become his 
playthings ; but the witches, though they have no reality 
have still a fascination for him. The interest which he feels 
in them, even in their now shadowy state, is a proof that he 
would have believed in them in good earnest a century 
and a half earlier. The imagination, working in a 
different intellectual atmosphere, is unable to project its 
images iipon the external world ; but it still forms them in 
the old shape. His solitary musings necessai'ily employ a 
modei'n dialect, but they often turn on the same topics 
which occurred to Johnathan Edwards in the woods of 
Connecticut. Instead of the old Puritan speculations 
aboutPredestination and free-will, he dwells upon the trans- 
mission by natural laws of an hereditary curse, and upon 



14 CRITICAL OPINIONS 

the strange blending of good and evil, whicli may cause 
sin to be an awakening impulse in the human soul. . . . 

The strange mysteries in which the world and our nature 
are shrouded are always present to his imagination ; he 
catches dim glimpses of the laws- which bring out strange 
harmonies, but, on the whole, tend rather to deepen than 
to clear the mysteries. He loves the marvellous, not in the 
vulgar sense of the word, but as a symbol of the perplexity 
which encounters every thoughtful man in his journey 
through life. Similar tenets at an earlier period might, 
with almost equal probability, have led him to the stake as 
a dabbler in forbidden sciences, or have caused him to be 
revered as one to whom a deep spiritual instinct had been 
granted.— iJburi' in a Librarij, Leslie Stephen. 

Another characteristic of this writer is the exceeding 
beauty of his style. It is as clear as running waters are. 
Indeed, he uses words as mere stepping-stones, upon 
which, with a free and youthful bound, his spirit crosses 
and recrosses the bright and rushing stream of thought. 
Some writers of the present day have introduced a kind of 
Gothic architecture into their style. All is fantastic, vast 
and wonderous in the outward form, and within it myster- 
ious twilight, and the swelling sound of an organ, and a 
voice chanting hymns in Latin, which need a translation 
for many of the ci'owd. — H. W. Longfellow, North American 
Meview, 1837. 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 

A Childish Miracle 

One afternoon of a cold winter's day, wlien the sun 
shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, 
two children asked leave of their mother to run out 
and play in the new-fallen snow. The elder child 
was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender 5 
and modest disposition, and was thought to be very 
beautiful, her parents, and other people who were 
familiar with her, used to call Violet. But her 
brother was known by the style and title of Peony, on 
account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little 10 
phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and 
great scarlet flowers. The father of these two chil- 
dren, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, 
was an excellent but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort 
of man, a dealer in hardware, and was sturdily accus- 15 
tomed to take what is called the common-sense view 
of all matters that came under his consideration. 
With a heart about as tender as other people's, he 

11. Phiz. An abbreviation of physiognomy, meaning face. 



16 THE SNOW-IMAGE 

had a head as hard and impenetrable, and therefore, 
perhaps, as empty, as one of the iron pots which it 
was a part of his business to seU. The mother's char- 
acter, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, j 
5 a trait of unworldly beauty, — a delicate and dewy 
flower, as it were, that had survived out of her imagi- 
native youth, and still kept itself alive amid the dusty 
realities of matrimony and motherhood. 

So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, be- 

10 sought their mother to let them run out and play in 
the new snow; for, though it had looked so dreary 
and dismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, 
it had a very cheerful aspect, now that the sun was 
shining on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had 

15 no wider play place than a little garden before the 
house, divided by a white fence from the street, and 
with a pear tree and two or three plum trees over- 
shadowing it, and some rose bushes just in front of 
the parlor windows. The trees and shrubs, however, 

20 were now leafless, and their twigs Avere enveloped in 
the light snow, which thus made a kind of wintry 
foliage, with here and there a pendent icicle for the 
fruit. 

" Yes, Violet, — yes, my little Peony," said their 

25 kind mother; " you may go out and play in the new 
snow." 

Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 17 

darlings in woolen jackets and wadded sacks, and 
put comforters round their necks, and a pair of 
striped graters on each little pair of legs, and 
worsted mittens on their hands, and gave them a 
kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keep away Jack 5 
Frost. Forth sallied the two children, with a hop- 
skip-and-jiimp, that carried them at once into the 
very heart of a huge snowdrift, whence Violet 
emerged like a snow-bunting, while little Peony 
floundered out with his round face in full bloom. 10 
Then what a merry time had they ! To look at them, 
frolicking in the wintry garden, you would have 
thought that tlie dark and pitiless storm had been 
sent for no other purpose but to provide a new play- 
thing for Violet and Peony; and that they them- 15 
selves had been created, as the snow-birds were, to 
take delight only in the tempest, and in the white 
mantle which it spread over the earth. 

At last, when they had frosted one another all over 
with handfuls of snow, A'^iolet, after laughing heartily 20 
at little Peony's figure, was struck with a new idea. 

" You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony," said 
she, " if your cheeks were not so red. And that puts 
me in mind! Let us make an image out of snow — 
an image of a little girl — and it shall be our sister, 25 
and shall run about and play with us all winter long. 
Won't it be nice?" 



18 THE SNOAV-IMAGE 

" O. yes! " cried Peony, as plainly as he could 
speak, for he was but a little boy. ** That will be 
nice! And mamma shall see it! " , 

" Yes," answered Violet; " mamma shall see the 
5 new little girl. But she must not make her come 
into the warm parlor; for, you know, our little snow- 
sister will not love the warmth." 

And forthwith the children began this great busi- 
ness of making a snow-image that should run about; 

10 while their mother, who was sitting at the window 
and overheard some of their talk, could not help 
smiling at the gravity with which they set about it. 
They really seemed to imagine that there would be 
no difficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out 

15 of the snow. And, to say the truth, if miracles are 
ever to be wrought, it will be by putting our hands to 
the work in precisely such a simple and undoubting; 
frame of mind as that in wdiich Violet and Peony now • 
undertook to perform one, without so much as know- 

20 ing that it was a miracle. So thought the mother; 
and thought, likewise, that the new snow, just fallen 
from heaven, would be excellent material to make 
new beings of, if it were not so very cold. She gazed 
at the children a moment longer, delighting to watch 

25 their little figures — the girl, tall for her age, graceful 
and agile, and so delicately colored that she looked 
like a cheerful thought, more than a physical reality 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 19 

— while Peony expanded in breadth rather than 
height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs, 
as substantial as an elephant, though not quite so big. 
Then the mother resumed her work. What it was I 
forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet 5 
for Violet, or darning a pair of stockings for little 
Peony's short legs. Again, however, and again, and 
yet other agains, she could not help turning her head 
to the window, to see how the children got on with 
their snow-image. 10 

Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those 
bright little souls at their tasks! Moreover, it was 
really wonderful to observe how know^ingly and skill- 
fully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the 
chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, 15 
with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the 
nicer parts of the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, 
not so much to be made by the children, as to grow 
up under their hands, while they were playing and 
prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised 20 
at this ; and the longer she looked, the more and more 
surprised she grew. 

" What remarkable children mine are ' " thought 
she, smiling with a mother's pride; and smiling at 
herself, too, for being so proud of them. " What 25 
other children could have made anything so like a 
little girl's figure out of snow, at the first trial? 



20 THE SNOW-iMAGE 

Well; — but now I nnist finish Peony's new frock, for 
his grandfather is coming to-morrow, and I want the 
little fellow to look handsome." 

So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily 
5 at work again with her needle as the two children 
with their snow-image. But still, as the needle trav- 
eled hither and thither through the seams of the 
dress, the mother made her toil light and happy by 
listening to the airy voices of Violet and Peony. 

10 They kept talking to one another all the time, their 
tongues being quite as active as their feet and hands. 
Except at intervals, she could not distinctly hear; 
what was said, but had merely a sweet impression tliatt 
they were in a most loving mood, and were enjoying^ 

15 themselves highly, and that the business of making^ 
the snow-image went prosperously on. Now andl 
then, however, when Violet and Peony happened to 
raise their voices, the words were as audible as if they 
had been spoken in the very parlor, where the motheri 

20 sat. O, how delightfully those words echoed in hen 
heart, even though they meant nothing so very wise 
or wonderful, after all! 

But you must know a mother listens with her heart, 
much more than with her ears; and thus she is often 

25 delighted with the trills of celestial music, when othei 
people can hear nothing of the kind. 

"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet to her brother. 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 21 

who had gone to anotber part of the garden, " bring 
me some of that fresh snow, Peony, from 'the very 
furthest corner, where we have not been trampling. 
I want it to shape onr little snow-sister's bosom with. 
You know that part must be quite pure, just as it 5 
came out of the sky! " 

"Here it is, Violet!" answered Peony, in his 
bluif tone, — but a very sweet tone, too, — as he came 
floundering through the half -trodden drifts. " Here 
is the snow for her little bosom. O, Violet, how 10 
beau-ti-ful she begins to look! " 

"Yes," said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly; 
" our snow-sister does look very lovely. I did not 
quite know. Peony, that we could make such a sweet 
little girl as this." 15 

The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and 
delightful an incident it would be, if fairies, or, still 
better, if angel-children were to come from paradise, 
and play invisibly with her own darlings, and help 
them to make their snow-image, giving it the features 20 
3f celestial babyhood! Violet and Peony would not 
be aware of their immortal playmates, — only they 
would see that the image grew very beautiful while 
they worked at it, and would think that they them- 
selves had done it all. 35 

" My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if 
nortal children ever did ! " said the mother to her- 



22 THE SNOW-IMAGE 

self; and then she smiled again at her own motherly 
pride. 

JSTevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagina- 
tion; and, ever and anon, she took a glimpse out of' 
5 the window, half dreaming that she might see the 
golden-haired children of paradise sj3orting with her 
own golden-haired Violet and bright-cheeked Peony. 

]^ow, for a few moments, there was a busy andl 
earnest, but indistinct hum of the two children's; 
10 voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together with 
one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the 
guiding spirit ; while Peony acted rather as a laborer, 
and brought her the snow from far and near. And 
yet the little urchin evidently had a proper under- 
15 standing of the matter too ! 

"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet; for her brother' 
was again at the other side of the garden. " Bring 
me those light wreaths of snow that have rested on 
the lower branches of the pear tree. You can clam- 
20 ber on the snowdrift, Peony, and reach them easily. 
I must have them to make some ringlets for our snow- 
sister's head! " i 

" Here they are, Violet! " answered the little boy. 
" Take care you do not break them. Well done ! 
25 Well done ! How pretty ! " 

" Does she not look sweetly? " said Violet, with a 

14. Urchin. Mischievous boy. 



THE SNOW- IMAGE 23 

very satisfied tone; "and now we mnst liave some 
little shining bits of ice, to make the brightness of 
her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see 
how very beautifnl she is; but papa will say, ' Tush! 
nonsense! — come in out of the cold! ' " 5 

" Let us call mamma to look out," said Peony; and 
then he shouted lustily, "Mamma! mamma!! mam- 
ma!!! Look out, and see what a nice 'ittle girl we 
are making! " 

The mother put down her work, for an instant, and 10 
looked out of the window. But it so happened that 
the sun — for. this was one of the shortest days of the 
whole year — had sunken so nearly to the edge of the 
world, that his setting shine came obliquely into 
the lady's eyes. So she was dazzled, you must under- 15 
stgiid, and could not very distinctly observe what was 
in the garden. Still, however, through all that 
bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and the new snow, 
she beheld a small white figure in the garden, that 
seemed to have a wonderful deal of human likeness 30 
about it. And she saw Violet and Peony, — indeed, 
she looked more at them than at the image, — she saw 
the two children still at work; Peony bringing fresh 
snow, and Violet applying it to the figure as scientifi- 
cally as a scul])tor adds clay to his model. Indis- 25 

14 Obliquely. Slantingly. 

25. Sculptor adds clay to his model. An artist first shapes carefully in 
vet clay a model of the figure which he wishes to chisel in marble. 



24 THE SNOW-IMAGE 

"tinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the mothei 
thought to herself that never before was there a snow- 
figure so cunningly made, nor ever such a dear littk 
girl and boy to make it. 

5 " They do everything better than other children,' 
said she, very complacently. " JSTo wonder they 
make better snow-images! " 

"She sat down again to her work, and made as much 
haste with it as possible; because twilight would soon 

10 come, and Peony's frock was not yet finished, andl 
grandfather was expected by railroad, pretty early in 
the morning. Faster and faster, therefore, went her 
flying fingers. The children, likewise, kept busily at 
work in the garden, and still the mother listened, 

15 whenever she could catch a word. She was amused 
to observe how their little imaginations had got mixedlj 
up with what they were doing, and were carried aAvay 
by it. They seemed positively to think that the^ 
snow-child would run about and play with them. j 

20 " "What a nice playmate she will be for us, all win- 
ter long! " said Violet. ^' I hope papa will not be 
afraid of her giving us a cold! Shan't you love her i 
dearly. Peony ? " 

" O, yes! " cried Peony. " And I will hug her, 

25 and she shall sit down close by me, and drink some of 
my warm milk! " 

" O, no, Peony!" answered Violet, with gravei 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 25 

visdoiii. " That will not do at all. Warm milk 
vill not be wholesome for our little snow-sister. Lit- 
le snow-people, like her, eat nothing but icicles. 
STo, no. Peon J ; we must not give her anything warm 
drink! " 5 

There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, 
vhose short legs were never weary, had gone on a 
)ilgrimage again to the other side of the garden, 
yi of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joy- 
ully. . 10 

"Look here, Peony! Come quickly! A light 
las been shining on her cheek out of that rose-colored 
loud! and the color does not go away! Is not that 
>eautiful? " 

"Yes; it is beau-ti-ful," answered Peony, pro- 15 
louncing the three syllables with deliberate accuracy. 
' O, Violet, only look at her hair! It is all like 
;old!" 

! " O, certainly," said Violet, with tranquillity, as if 
; were very much a matter of course. " That color, 20 
on know, comes from the golden clouds that we 
ee up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. 
iut her lips must be made very red, — redder than 
er cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make them red, 
f we both kiss them ! " 25 

Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little 
macks, as if both her children were kissing the snow- 



26 THE SNOW-IMAGE 

image on its frozen month. Bnt, as this did not seem 
to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next pro- 
posed that the snow-ehild should be invited to kiss 
Peony's scarlet cheek. 
5 " Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me! " cried Peony. 
" There! she has kissed you," added Violet, " and 
now her lips are very red. And she blushed a little 
too! " 

" O, what a cold kiss! " cried Peony. 

10 Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west 
wind, sweeping through the garden and rattling the 
parlor windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the \ 
mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her 
thimbled finger, to summon the two children in, when 

15 they both cried out to her with one voice. The tone 
was not a tone of surprise, although they were evi- 
dently a good deal excited; it appeared rather as if 
they were very much rejoiced at some event that had 
now happened, but which they had been looking for, 

20 and had reckoned upon all along. 

"Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little 
snow-sister, and she is running about the garden with 



us 



» " 



" What imaginative little beings my children are ! " 

25 thought the mother, putting the last few stitches into 

Peony's frock. " And it is strange, too, that they 

make me almost as much a child as they themselves 



THE SNOW-IMACiE 



are! I can hardly lielp believing, now, that the 
snow-image has really come to life! " 

"Dear mamma!" cried Violet, '^ pray look out, 
and see what a sweet playmate we have! " 
V The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer 5 
Helay to look forth from the window. The sun was 
Know gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich 
r inheritance of his brightness among those purple and 
golden clouds which make the sunsets of winter so 
magnificent. But there was not the slightest gleam 10 
'. or dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so 
' that the good lady could look all over the garden, and 
see everything and everybody in it. And what do 
you think she saw there? Violet and Peony, of 
course, her own two darling children. Ah, but whorn 15 
or what did she besides? Why, if you will believe 
me, there was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in 
white, wdth rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden 
hue, playing about the garden with the two children! 
A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on 20 
as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and they 
with her, as if all the three had been playmates dur- 
ing the whole of their little lives. The mother 
thought to herself that it must certainly be the daugh- 
ter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing Violet 25 
and Peony in the garden, the child had run across 
the street to play with them. So this kind lady went 



28 THE SNOW-IMAGE 

to the door^ intending to invite the little runaway into 
her comfortable parlor; for, now that the sunshine 
was withdrawn, the atmosj)here, out of doors, was 
already growing very cold. 
5 But, after oj^ening the house-door, she stood an in- 
stant on the threshold, hesitating whether she ought 
to ask the child to come in, or whether she should 
even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted j 
whether it were a real child, after all, or only a. light i 

10 wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and 
thither about the garden by the intensely cold west] 
wind. • There was certainly something very singular 
in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the; 
children of the neighborhood, the lady could remem- 

15 ber no such face, with its pure white, and delicate, 
rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about the 
forehead and cheeks. And as for her dress, which i 
was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, iti 
was such as no reasonable woman would put upon ai 

20 little girl, when sending her out to play, in the depth 
of winter. It made this kind and careful mother 
shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothing: 
in the world on them, except a very thin pair of white 
slippers. ISTevertheless, airily as she was clad, the 

25 child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience 
from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow 
that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in its sur-n 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 29 

face; while Violet could but just keep pace with 
her, and Peony's short legs compelled him to lag 
behind. 

Once, in the course of their play, the strange child 
placed herself between Yiolet and Peony, and taking 5 
a hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and they 
ali'Ug with her. Almost immediately, however, 
Peony pulled away his little fist, and began to rub it 
as if the fingers were tingling with cold; while Vio- 
let also released herself, though with less abruptness, 10 
gravely remarking that it was better not to take hold 
of hands. The white-robed damsel said not a word, 
but danced about, just as merrily as before. If Vio- 
let and Peony did not choose to play with her, she 
could make just as good a playmate of the brisk and 15 
cold west wind, which kept blowing her all about the 
garden, and took such liberties w^ith her, that they 
seemed to have been friends for a long time. All 
this while, the mother stood on the threshold, won- 
dering how a little girl could look so much like a fly- 20 
ing snowdrift, or how a snowdrift could look so very 
like a little girl. 

She called Violet, and whispered to her. 

"Violet, my darling, what is this child's name?" 
asked she. " Does she live near us? " 25 

" Why, dearest mamma," answered Violet, laugh- 
ing to think that her mother did nolf comprehend so 



30 THE SNOW-IMAGE 

very plain an affair, " tliis is our little snow-sister, 
whom we have just been making ! " 

" Yes, dear mamma," cried Peony, running to his 
mother, and looking up simply into her face. " This 
5 is our snow-image! Is it not a nice 'ittle child? " 
At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting 
through the air. As was very natural, they avoided 
Violet and Peony. But — and this looked strange — 
they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered 

10 eagerly about her head, alighted on her shoulders, 
and seemed to claim her as an old acquaintance. Ij 
She, on her part, was evidently as glad to see these ; 
little birds, old Winter's grandchildren, as they werejj 
to see her, and welcomed them by holding out both 

15 her hands. Hereupon, they each and all tried to 
alight on her two palms and ten small fingers and 
thumbs, crowding one another off, with an immense 
fluttering of their tiny wings. One dear little bird 
nestled tenderly in her bosom; another put its bill to 

20 her lips. They were as joyous, all the while, and 

seemed as much in their element, as you may have 

seen them when sporting with a snowstorm. j 

Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty 

sight; for they enjoyed the merry time which their 

25 new playmate was having with these small-winged 
visitants, almost as much as if they themselves took, 
part in it. 



THE SNOW-IMAGK 31 

" Violet," said her mother, greatly perplexed, " tell 
me the truth, without any jest. Who is this little 
girl?" 

" My darling manmia," answered Violet, looking 
seriously into her mother's face, and apparently sur- 5 
prised that she should need any further explanation, 
" I have told you truly who she is. It is our little 
snow-image, which Peony and I have been making. 
Peony will tell you so, as well as I." 

"■ Yes, mamma," asseverated Peony, with much 10 
gravity in his crimson little phiz; "this is 'ittle 
snow-child. Is not she a nice one? But, mamma, 
her hand is, oh, so very cold! " 

While mamma still hesitated what to think and 
what to do, the street-gate was thrown open, and the 15 
father of A'^iolet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a 
pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn dowm over his 
ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands. Mr. 
Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet 
a happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched 20 
face, as if he had been busy all the day long, and was 
glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes bright- 
ened at the sight of his wife and children, although 
he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise, 
at finding the whole family in the open air, on so 35 

10. Asseverated. Asserted earnestly. 

17. Pilot-cloth sack. A coat made of coarse dark blue woolen cloth such 
as pilots \ve;ir. 



32 THE SNOW-IMAGE 

bleak a day, and after sunset too. He soon perceived] 
the little white stranger, sporting to and fro in the 
garden, like a dancing snow-wreath, and the flock of 
snow-birds fluttering about her head.' 
5 "Pray, what little girl may that be?" inquired 
this very sensible man. '' Surely her mother must 
be crazy, to let her go out in such bitter weather as it 
has been to-day, with only that flimsy white gown,! 
and those thin slippers! " 

10 *' My dear husband," said his wife, " I know no 
more about the little thing than you do. Some 
neighbor's child, I suppose. Our Violet and Peony," 
she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd] 
a story, " insist that she is nothing but a snow-image,^ 

15 which they have been busy about in the gardeny 

almost all the afternoon." • - 

As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes 

toward the spot where the children's snow-image had^ 

been made. What was her surprise, on perceiving 

20 that there was not the slightest trace of so much 
labor! — no image at all! — no piled-up heap of snow! 
— nothing whatever, save the prints of little footsteps 
around a vacant space! 

" This is very strange! " said she. 

25 " What is strange, dear mother? " asked Violet. 
"Dear father, do not you see how it is? This is 
our snow-image, which Peony and I have made, be- 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 33 

cause we wanted another playmate. Did not we, 
Peony?" 

" Yes, papa," said crimson Peony. " This be our 
'ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she 
,gave me such a cold kiss! " 5 

t "Poll, nonsense, children!" cried their good, 
nondst father, who, as we have already intimated, had 
an exceedingly common-sensible way of looking at 
matters. " Do not tell me of making live figures out 
of snow. Come, wife ; this little stranger must not 10 
stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. AVe will 
bring her into the parlor; and you shall give her a 
supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as com- 
fortable as you can. Meanwhile, I will inquire 
[among the neighbors; or, if necessary, send the city- 15 
icrier about the streets, to give notice of a lost child." 

So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man 
was going toward the little white damsel, with the 
best intentions in the world. But Violet and Peony, 
each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly be- 20 
sought him not to make her come in. 

" Dear father," cried Violet, putting herself before 
him, " it is true what I have been telling you ! This 
is our little snow-girl, and she cannot live any longer 
than while she breathes the cold west wind. Do not 25 
make her come into the hot room ! " 

" Yes, father," shouted Peony, gtamping his little 

H. 



34 THE SNOW-IMAGE i 

foot, SO mighty was he in earnest, " this be nothing 
but our 'ittle snow-child! She will not love the hot 
fire!" 

" l^onsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!" cried 
5 the father, half -vexed, half -laughing at what he con- 
sidered their foolish obstinacy. " Run into the 
house, this moment ! It is too late to play any longer, 
now. I must take care of this little girl immediately, 
or she will catch her death-a-cold ! " 

10 ^'Husband! dear husband!" said his wife, in a 
low voice, — for she had been looking narrowly at the 
snow-child, and was more perplexed than ever, — 
" there is something very singular in all this. You 
will think me foolish, — but — but — may it not be that 

15 some invisible angel has been attracted by the sim- 
plicity and good faith with which our children set 
about their undertaking? May he not have spent an 
hour of his immortality in playing with those dear 
little souls? and so the result is what we call a 

20 miracle. 'No, no ! Do not laugh at me ; I see what 
a foolish thought it is! " 

" My dear wife," replied the husband, laughing 
heartily, " you are as much a child as Violet and 
Peony." 

25 And in one sense so she was, for all through life she 
had kept her heart full of childlike simplicity and 
faith, which was as pure and clear as crystal; and 



THE SNOW-IMAGE S5 

looking at all matters througli this transparent 
medium, slie sometimes saw truths so profound, that 
other people laughed at them as nonsense and 
absurdity. 

But now kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the garden, 5 
breaking away from his two children, who still sent 
their shrill voices after him, beseeching him to let the 
snow-child stay and enjoy herself in the cold west 
wind. As he approached, the snow-birds took to 
flight. The little white damsel, also, fled backward, 10 
shaking her head, as if to sa}^, ^' Pray, do not touch 
me! " and roguishly, as it appeared, leading him 
through the deepest of the snow. Once, the good 
man stumbled, and floundered down upon his face, 
so that, gathering himself up again, with the snow 15 
sticking to his rough pilot-cloth sack, he looked as 
white and wintry as a snow-image of the largest size. 
Some of the neighbors, meanwhile, seeing him from 
tlicir windows, wondered what could possess poor Mr. 
Lindsey to be running about his garden, in pursuit of 80 
a snowdrift, which the west wind was driving hither 
and thither! At length, after a vast deal of trouble, 
h.e chased the little stranger into a corner, where she 
could not possibly escape him. His wife had been 
looking on, and, it being nearly twilight, was wonder- 35 
struck to observe how the snow-child gleamed and 
sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow all round 



36 THE SNOW-IMAGE j 

about her; and when driven into the corner, she posi- 
tively glistened like a star! It was a frosty kind of 
brightness, too, like that of an icicle in the moonlight. 
The wife thonght it strange that good Mr. Lindsey 

5 should see nothing remarkable in the snow-child's ap- 
pearance. 

" Come, you odd little thing! " cried the honest 
man, seizing her by the hand, " I have caught you at . 
last, and will make you comfortable in spite of your- 

10 self. We will put a nice warm pair of worsted 
stockings on your frozen little feet, and you shall 
have a good thick shawl to wrap yourself in. Your 
poor white nose, I am afraid, is actually frost- 
bitten. But we will make it all right. Come along 

15 in." 

And so, with a most bencA^olent smile on his saga- 
cious visage, all purj^le as it was with the cold, this 
very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by 
the hand and led her toward the house. She fol- 

20 lowed him, droopingly and reluctant ; for all the 
glow and sparkle was gone out of her figure; and 
whereas just before she had resembled a bright, 
frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam 
on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and lan- 

25 guid as a thaw. As kind Mr, Lindsey led her up the 
steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into his 
face, — their eyes full of tears, which froze before 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 37 

they could run down tlieir cheeks, — and again en- 
treated him not to bring their snow-image into the 
house. 

" K^ot bring her in! " exclaimed the kind-hearted 
man. " Why, you are crazy, my little Violet! — 5 
quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold, 
already, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in 
spite of my thick gloves. Would you have her freeze 
to death?" 

His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking 10 
another long, earnest, almost awe-stricken gaze at the 
little white stranger. She hardly knew whether it 
was a d^eam or no; but she could not help fancying 
that she saw the delicate print of Violet's fingers on 
the child's neck. It looked just as if while Violet 15 
^was shaping out the image, she had given it a gentle 
' pat with her hand, and had neglected to smooth the 
impression quite away. 

" After all, husband," said the mother, recurring 
to her idea that the angels would be as much de- 20 
lighted to play with Violet and Peony as she herself 
was, " after all, she does look strangely like a snow- 
image! I do believe she is made of snow! " 

A puff of the west wind blew against the snow- 
child, and again she sparkled like a star. 25 

" Snow! " repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the 
reluctant guest over his hospitable threshold. " Ko 



38 THE SNOW-IMAGE | 

wonder she looks like snow. She is half frozen, poor 
little thing! But a good fire will put everything to 
rights." 

"Without furtlier talk, and always with the sam'e 
5 best intentions, this highly benevolent and common- 
sensible individual led the little white damsel — droop- 
ing, drooping, drooping, more and more — out of the 
frosty air, and into his comfortable parlor. A 
Heidenburg stove, filled to the brim with intensely 

10 burning anthracite, was sending a bright gleam 
through the isinglass of its iron door, and causing the 
vase of water on its top to fume and bubble with 
excitement. A warm, sultry smell was diffused 
throughout the room. A thermometer on the wall 

15 furthest from the stove stood at eighty degrees. The 
parlor was hung with red curtains, and covered with 
a red carpet, and looked just as warm as it felt. The 
difference betwixt the atmosphere here and the cold, 
wintry twilight out of doors, was like stepping at once 

20 from 1^0 va Zembla to the hottest part of India, or 
from the E'orth Pole into an oven. O, this was a fine 
place for the little white stranger! 

The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on 
the hearthrug, right in front of the hissing and fum-i 

S5 ing stove. 1 

" Now she will be comfortable ! " cried Mr. Lind- 
sey, rubbing his hands and looking about him, with; 



THE SNOAV-IMAGE 39 

the pleasantest smile you ever saw. " Make yourself 
at home, my child." 

Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white 
inaiden, as she stood on the hearthrug, with the hot 
blast of the stove striking through her like a pesti- 5 
lence. Once, she threw a glance wistfully toward the 
windows, and caught a glimpse, through its red cur- 
tains, of the snow-covered roofs, and the stars glim- 
mering frostily, and all the delicious intensity of the 
cold night. The bleak wind rattled the window- 10 
panes, as if it were summoning her to come forth. 
But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the 
hot stove ! 

But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss. 

" Come, wife," said he, " let her have a pair of 15 
rliick stockings and a woolen shawl or blanket di- 
rectly; and tell Dora to give her some warm supper 
as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, 
amuse your little friend. She is out of spirits, you 
see, at finding herself in a strange place. For my 20 
part, I will go around among the neighbors, and find 
out where she belongs." 

The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the 
shawl and stockings; for her own view of the matter, 
however subtle and delicate, had given way, as it 25 
always did, to the stubborn materialism of her hus- ^ 
band. Without heeding the remonstrances of his 



40 THE SNOW-IMAGE 

two children, who still kept murmuring that their 
little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. 
Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlor door 
carefully behind him. Turning up the collar of his 
5 sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and 
had barely reached the street-gate, when he was re- 
called by the screams of Violet and Peony, and the 
rapping of a thimbled finger against the parlor 
window. 

10 "Husband! husband!" cried his wife, showing 

her horror-stricken face through the window-panes. 

" There is no need of going for the child's parents! " 

"We told you so, father! " screamed Violet and 

Peony, as he re-entered the parlor. " You would 

15 bring her in ; and now our poor — dear — beau-ti-f ul 
little snow-sister is thawed! " 

And their own sweet little faces were already dis- 
solved in tears; so that their father, seeing what 
strange things occasionally happen in this everyday 

20 \vorld, felt not a little anxious lest his children might 
be going to thaw too! In the utmost perplexity, he 
demanded an explanation of his wife. She could 
only reply, that, being summoned to the parlor by the 
cries of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of the t 

35 little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a i 
heap of snow, which, while she was gazing at it, 
melted quite away upon the hearthrug. 



THE SNOW-IMAGE 41 

" And there you see all that is left of it! " added 
she, pointing to a pool of water, in front of the stove. 

'' Yes, father," said Violet, looking reproachfully 
at him, through her tears, ''' there is all that is left of 
our dear little snow-sister! " ■"» 

"■ Naughty father! " cried Peony, stamping his 
foot, and — I shudder to say — shaking his little fist at 
khe common-sensible man. " We told you how it 
would be. What for did you bring her in? " 

And the Heidenburg stove, through the isinglass 10 
Df its door, seemed to glare at good Mr. Lindsey, like 
1 red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief which 
it had done! 

This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, 
which yet will occasionally happen, where common- 15 
ijense finds itself at fault. The remarkable story of 
the snow-image, though to that sagacious class of 
people to whom good Mr. Lindsey belongs it may 
seem but a childish affair, is, nevertheless, capable of 
Doing moralized in various methods, greatly for their 20 
dification. One of its lessons, for instance, might 
30, that it behooves men, and especially men of 
benevolence, to consider well what they are about, 
md, before acting on their philanthropic purposes, to 
36 quite sure that they comprehend the nature and all 25 
;he relations of the business in hand. What has 

22. Behooves. Is proper and necessary. 



42 THE SNOW IMA<4E 

been established as an element of good to one being 
may prove absolute mischief to another; even as the 
warmth of the parlor was proper enough for children 
of flesh and blood, like Violet and Peony, — though 

5 by no means very wholesome, even for them, — but 
involved nothing short of annihilation to the unfor- 
tunate snow-image. 

But, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise ' 
men of good Mr. Lindsey's stamp. They know 

10 everything — oh, to be sure ! — everj^thing that has 
been, and everything that is, and everything that, by ■ 
any future possibility, can be. And, should some' 
phenomenon of nature or providence transcend their 
system, they will not recognize it, even, if it come to 

15 pass under their very noses. 

'-'■ Wife," said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence, 
" see what a quantity of snow the children have 
brought in on their feet! It has made quite a puddle 
here before the stove. Pray tell Dora to bring some 

20 towels and sop it up! " 

6. Annihilation. Entire dpsl motion. 
13. Phenomenon. Uncommon fact or event. 



THE GEEAT STOIvTE FACE 

One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a 
mother and her Httle boy sat at the door of their cot- 
tage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had 
but to Kft their eyes, and there it was plainly to be 
seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brighten- 5 
ing all its features. 

And what was the Great Stone Face ? 

Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, 
there was a valley so spacious that it contained many 
thousand inhabitants. Some of these good people 10 
iwelt in log huts, with the black forest all around 
ihem, on the steep and difficult hillsides. Others had 
their homes in comfortable farmhouses, and culti- 
vated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level sur- 
faces of the valley. Others, again, were congregated 15 
into populous villages, where some wild highland 
rivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the 
upper mountain region, had been caught and tamed 
by human cunning, and compelled to turn the ma- 
chinery of cotton factories. The inhabitants of this 20 
valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes 



44 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

of life. Bnt all of them, grown people and cliilclren, 
had a kind of familiarity with the Great Stone Face, 
althongh some possessed the gift of distinguishing this 
grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many 
5 of their neighbors. 

The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of ISTature 
in her mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the 
perpendicula£_side of a mountain by some immense 
rocks, which had been thrown together in such a posi- 
10 tion as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely ", 
to resemble the features of the human countenance. 1 
It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had 
sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There 
was a broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in 
15 height ; the nose, with its long bridge ; and the vast 
lips, which, if they could have spoken, w^ould have 
rolled their thunder accents from one end of the 
valley to the other. True it is, that if the spectator 
approached too near, he lost the outline of the 
20 gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap of pon-^ 
derous and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one 
upon another. Retracing his steps, however, the 
wondrous features would again be seen; and the fur- 
is. Titan. In Greek fable, the Titans were the twelve children of UranuB, 
who made war against their father and put Kronus, one of their number, on 
the throne ; he in time being overcome by his son, Zeus, the Titans were shut 
up in Tartarus. They were represented as giants of enormous strength who 
tore up trees and mountains in their rage. 
21. Chaotic. Disorderly. 



THE GREA.T STONE FACE 45 

tlier he witlidrew from tliem, the more like a human 
face, with all its original divinity intact, did they 
' appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the 
tlouds and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering 
about it, the Great Stone Face seemed positively to 5 
be alive. 

It was a happy lot for children to grow up to man- 
hood or womanhood with the Great Stone Face be- 
fore their eyes, for all the features were noble, and 
the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it 10 
were the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced 
all mankind in its affections, and had room for more. 
It was an education only to look at it. According to 
the belief of many people, the valley owed much of 
its fertility to this benign aspect that was continually 15 
beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infus- 
ing its tenderness into the sunshine. 

As we began with saying, a mother and her little 
l)oy sat at their cottage door, gazing at the Great 
Stone Face, and talking about it. The child's name 20 
was Ernest. 

" Mother," said he, while the Titanic visage smiled 
on him, " I wish that it could speak, for it looks so 
very kindly that its voice must needs be pleasant. If 
I were to see a man with such a face, I should love 25 
him dearly." 

''If ATI ol/l prnnTipr'TT ql-|on1d i^nma fn 7^Qaa " op- 



46 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

swered liis mother, " we may see a man, some time or 
other, with exactly such a face as that." 

" What prophecy do you mean, dear mother? " 
eagerly inquired Ernest. " Pray tell me all about 
5 it!" 

So his mother told him a story that her own mother 
had told to her, when she herself was younger than 
little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past, 
but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so! 

10 very old, that even the Indians, who formerly inhab-' 
ited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers,! 
to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by 
the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind 
among the tree-tops. The purport was, that, at some- 

15 future day, a child should be born hereabouts, who'T' 
was destined to become the greatest and noblest per- 
sonage of his time, and whose countenance, in man- 
hood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great 
Stone Face. I^ot a few old-fashioned people, anc^ 

20 young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, stil ^ 
cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy, 
But others, who had seen more of the world, had 
watched and waited till they were weary, and had 
beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that 

25 proved to be much greater or nobler than his neigh- 
bors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. At| 

14. Purnort. Riihstflnoe or grpriorQi »neaiiing. 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 47 

ill events, the great man of the prophecy had not yet 
ippeared. 

"Oh, mother, dear mother!" cried Ernest, clap- 
]»ing his hands above his head, " I do hope that I shall 
live to see him! " 5 

His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful 
vo^^ian, and felt that it was wisest not to discourage 
he generous hopes of her little boy. So she only 
taid to him, " Perhaps you may." 

And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother 10 
;old him. It was always in his mind, whenever he 
ooked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his 
jhildhood in the log cottage where he was born, and 
was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many 
things, assisting her much with his little hands, and 15 
more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a 
happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a 
mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with 
labor in the fields, but with more intelligence bright- 
ening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have 20 
been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had 
no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face be- 
came one to him. When the toil of the day was over, 
he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to 
imagine that those vast features recognized him, and 25 
gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement, re- 
sponsive to his own look of veneration. We must 



48 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

not take upon us to' affirm that this was a mistake, 
although the Face may have looked no more kindly 
at Ernest than at all the world besides. But the 
secret was, that the boy's tender and confiding sim-^ 
5 plicity discerned what other people could not see ; ano 
thus the love, which was meant for all, became hit' 
peculiar portion. 

About this time, there went a rumor throughout 
the valley, that the great man, foretold from ages 

10 long ago, who was to l)ear a resemblance to the Great 
Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that 
many years before, a young man had migrated frorc 
the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, aftei 
getting together a little money, he had set up as r 

15 shopkeeper. His name — but I could never learr 
whether it was his real one, or a nickname that liac 
grown out of his habits and success in life — wa 
Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowec 
by Providence with that inscrutable faculty which 

20 develops itself in what the world calls luck, he became 
an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole 
fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of 
the globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose 
of adding heap after heap to the mountainous ac- 

25 cumulation of this one man's wealth. The cold 
regions of the north, almost within the gloom and I 

%5. Accumulation. Heap. 



THK GREAT STONE FACE 49 

hadow of tlie Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in 
,he shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the 
golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up the ivory 
f-usks of her great elephants out of the forests; the 
Sast came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, 5 
and teas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the 
^•leaming purity of large pearls. The ocean, not to 
be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her mighty 
whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and 
make a profit on it. Be the original commodity what 10 
it might, it was gold within his grasp. It might be 
said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that whatever 
he touched with his fingers immediately glistened, 
and grew yellow, and was changed at once into ster- 
ling metal, or, which suited him still better, into piles 15 
of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so 
very rich that it would have taken him a hundred 
years only to count his wealth, he bethought himself 
of his native valley, and resolved to go back thither, 
and end his days where he was born. With this 20 
purpose in view, he sent a skillful architect to build 
him such a palace as should be fit for a man of his 
vast wealth to live in. 



6. Effulgence. Beaming brightness. 

12. Midas. According to Greek story, a King of Phrygia to whom the god 
Dionysns granted that whatever he touched should become gold. But as even 
food turned to gold on his lips he would have perished miserably amid his 
wealth had not Dionysus relieved him by taliing away the golden touch. 



k 



50 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

As I have said above, it had ah-eady been rumorec 
in the valley that Mr. Gathergold had turned out tc 
be the prophetic personage so long and vainly lookec 
for, and that his visage was the perfect and unde-1 

5 niable similitude of the Great Stone Face. People 
were the more ready to believe that this must needs 
be the fact, when they beheld the splendid edifice tliat 
rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father's 
old weather-beaten farmhouse. The exterior was of 

10 marble, so dazzlingly white that it seemed as though 
the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, 
like those humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his 
young play-days, before his fingers were gifted with 
the touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to 

15 build of snow. It had a richly ornamented portico, 
supported by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty 
door, studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind of 
variegated wood that had been brought from beyond 
the sea. The windows, from the floor to the ceil- 

20ing of each stately apartment, were composed, re- 
spectively, of but one enormous pane of glass, so 
transparently pure that it was said to be a finer 
medium than even the vacant atmosphere. Hardly 
anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this 

25 palace ; but it was reported, and with good semblance>i 
of truth, to be far more gorgeous than the outside, 

5. Similitude. Likeness. 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 51 

insomuch that whatever was iron or brass in other 
houses, was silver or gold in this; and Mr. Gather- 
gold's bed-chamber,' especially, made such a glittering 
appearance that no ordinary man would have been 
able to close his eyes there. But, on the other hand, 5 
Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to wealth, that per- 
haps he could not have closed his eyes unless where 
the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath his 
eyelids. 

In due time, the mansion was finished; next came 10 
the upholsterers, with magnificent furniture; then, a 
whole troop of black and white servants, the harbin- 
gers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic 
person, was expected to arrive at sunset. Our friend 
Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the 15 
idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of 
prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length 
to be made manifest to his native valley. He knew, 
boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in 
which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might 20 
transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and 
assume a control over human affairs as wide and be- 
nignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full 
of faith and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the 
people said was true, and that now he was to behold 25 

6. Inured. Accustomed by iipo. 

12. Harbingers. Those uho go before a person to announce or piepare for 
his coming. 



52 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

the living likeness of those wondrous features on the 
mountain side. While the boy was still gazing up 
the valley, and fancying, as he always did, that the 
Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly 

5 at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approach- 
ing swiftly along the winding road, 

"Here he comes! " cried a group of people who 
were assembled to witness the arrival. " Here comesj 
the great Mr. Gathergold ! " 

10 A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the ; 
turn of the road. Within it, thrust partly out of the? 
window, appeared the physiognomy of a little old I 
man, with a skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand 
had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, small,', 

15 sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable 
wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made stilll 
thinner by pressing them forcibly together. 

"The very image of the Great Stone Face!' 
shouted the people. " Sure enough, the old prophA 

20 ecy is true; and here we have the great man come, atf 
last! " 

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed 
actually to believe that here was the likeness which 
they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to be 

25 an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, 
stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the car- 
riage rolled onward, held out their hands and liftedl 



11 

I 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 53 

up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching 
charity. A yellow claw — the very same that had 
clawed together so much wealth — poked itself out of 
the coach-window, and dropped some copper coins 
upon the ground; so that, though the great man's 5 
name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just 
as suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper. 
Still, nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evi- 
dently with as much good faith as ever, the people 
bellowed : 10 

" He is the very image of the Great Stone Face ! " 

But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewd- 
ness of that sordid visage, and gazed up the valley, 
where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sun- 
1 teams, he could still distinguish those glorious feat- 15 
I ires which had impressed themselves into his soul. 
1 heir aspect cheered him. AVhat did the benign lips 
seem to say? 

" He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will 
come!" 20 

The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. 
He had grown to be a young man now. He attracted 
little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley; 
lor they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life, 
save that, when the labor of the day was over, he still 25 
loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the 
Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the 



54 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

matter, it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inas- 
much as Ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly, 
and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging this 
idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone Face 
5 had become a teacher to him, and that the sentiment 
which was expressed in it would enlarge the young 
man's heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sym- 
pathies than other hearts. They knew not that 
thence would come a better wisdom than could be 

10 learned from books, and a better life than could be 
molded on the defaced example of other human lives. 
Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and affec- 
tions which came to him so naturally, in the fields and 
at the fireside, and wherever he communed with him- 

15 self, were of a higher tone than those which all mem 
shared with him. A simple soul, — simple as wheni 
his mother first taught him the old prophecy, — he;{ 
beheld the marvelous features beaming adown the 
valley, and still wondered that their human counter- 

20 part was so long in making his appearance. 

By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead audi 
buried; and the oddest part of the matter was, that 
his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his exist- 
ence, had disappeared before his death, leaving noth- 

25 ing of him but a living skeleton, covered over with a 
wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the melting away of hisj 
gold, it had been very generally conceded that thereti 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 55 

[ was no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt 
\the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and that 
majestic face upon the mountain side. So the people 
ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and quietly 
consigned him to forgetfulness after his decease. 5 
Once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought 
up in connection with the magnificent palace which 
he had built, and which had long ago been turned 
into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers, mul- 
titudes of whom came, every summer, to visit that 10 
famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone Face, 
Thus, Mr. Gathergold being discredited and thrown 
into the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to come. 
It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, 
many years before, had enlisted as a soldier, and, after 15 
a great deal of hard fighting, had now become an 
illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called 
in history, he was known in camps and on the battle- 
field under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. 
'Jliis war-worn veteran, being now infirm with age 20 
and wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military 
life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the 
trumpet, that had so long been ringing in his ears, had 
lately signified a purpose of returning to his native 
valley, hoping to find repose where he remembered to 25 
have left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and 
their grown-up children, were resolved to welcome 



56 THE GREAT STONE FACE 



1 



the renowned warrior with a salute of cannon and a 
public dinner; and all the more enthusiastically, it 
being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of the 
Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An aid-de- 
5 camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through 
the valley, was said to have been struck with the re- 
semblance. Moreover, the schoolmates and early 
acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on . 
oath, that, to the best of their recollection, the af ore- 

10 said general had been exceedingly like the majestic 
image, even when a boy, only that the idea had never • 
occurred to them at that period. Great, therefore,, 
was the excitement throughout the valley; and many 
people, who had never once thought of glancing at 

15 the Great Stone Face for years before, now spent 
their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing; 
exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked. 

On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with alH 
the other people of the valley, left their work, and' 

20 proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet was 
prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the 
Reverend Doctor Battleblast was heard, beseeching a 
blessing on the good things set before them, and on 
the distinguished friend of peace in whose honor they 

25 were assembled. The tables were arranged in sd 

4. Aid-de-camp. An olflcer who receives and transmits the orders of a 
general, and performs other services for him. 



I 



I 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 57 



cleared space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding 
trees, except where a vista opened eastward, and af- 
forded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over 
the general's chair, which was a relic from the home 
of Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, 5 
with the laurel profusely intermixed, and surmounted 
by his country's banner, beneath which he had won 
his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on 
his tip-toes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated 
guest; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables 10 
anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch 
any word that might fall from the general in reply; 
and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, 
pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at any par- 
ticularly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, 15 
being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite 
into the background, where he could see no more of 
['Old Blood-and-Thunder's physiognomy than if it had 
fbeen still blazing on the battlefield. To console 
' himself, he turned toward the Great Stone Face, 30 
which, like a faithful and long-remembered friend, 
looked back and smiled upon him through the vista 
of the forest. Meantime, however, he could over- 
hear the remarks of various individuals, who were 
comparing the features of the hero with the face on 25 
the distant mountain side. 

2. Vista. View, especially a prospect shut in at the sides. 



58 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

" 'Tis the same face, to a hair! " cried one man, 
emitting a caper for joy. 

" AVonderfully like, that's a fact! " responded an-j 
other. I 

5 " Like ! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder him- 
self, in a monstrous looking-glass! " cried a third. 
" And why not? He's the greatest man of this or 
any other age, beyond a doubt." 

And then all three of the speakers gave a great 

10 shout, which communicated electricity to the crowd, 
and called forth a roar from a thousand voices, that 
went reverberating for miles among the mountains, 
until you might have supposed that the Great Stone 
Face had poured its thunder-breath into the cry. All 

15 these comments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the 
more to interest our friend ; nor did he think of ques-| 
tioning that now, at length, the mountain-visage had 
found its human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had 
imagined that this long-looked-for personage would 

20 appear in the character of a man of peace, uttering 
wisdom, and doing good, and making people happy. 
But, taking an habitual breadth of view, with all his 
simplicity, he contended that Providence should 
choose its own method of blessing mankind, and could 

25 conceive that this great end might be effected even by 

12. Reverberating. Resounding, echoing. 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 59 

a warrior and a bloody sword, should inscrutable wis- 
dom see fit to order matters so. 

"The general! the general!" was now the cry. 
" Hush ! silence ! Old Blood-and-Thunder's going to 
make a speech." 5 

Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the gen- 
eral's health had been drunk amid shouts of applause, 
and he now stood upon his feet to thank the company. 
Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders 
of the crowd, from the two glittering epaulets and 10 
embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of green 
boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner droop- 
ing as if to shade his brow! And there, too, visible 
in the same glance, through the vista of the forest, 
- appeared the Great Stone Face ! And was there, in- 15 
Jtdeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified? 
[Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He beheld a 
^war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of 
i^fenergy, and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle 
I wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies, were 20 
altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder's 
visage; and even if the Great Stone Face had 
assumed his look of stern command, the milder traits 
would still have tempered it. 

" This is not the man of prophecy," sighed Ernest 25 
to himself, as he made his way out of the throng. 
" And must the world wait longer yet? " 



60 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

The mists had congregated about the distant moun- 
tain side, and there were seen' the grand and awful 
features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benig- 
nant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the 
5 hills, and enrobing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold 
and purple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly be- 
lieve but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, 
. with a radiance still brightening, although without 
motion of the lips. It was probably the effect of the 

10 western sunshine, melting through the thinly diffused 
vapors that had swept between him and the object 
that he gazed at. But — as it always did — the aspect 
of his marvelous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if 
he had never hoped in vain. 

15 "■ Fear not, Ernest," said his heart, even as if the 
Great Face were whispering him, " fear not, Ernest; 
he will come." 

More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. 
Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now a 

20 man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he 
had become known among the people. Now, as 
heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the 
same simple-hearted man that he had always been. 
But he had thought and felt so much, he had given 

25 so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly 
hopes for some great good to mankind, that it seemed 
as though he had been talking with the angels, and 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 61 

had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. It 
w^as visible in the cabn and well-considered benefi- 
cence of his daily life, the quiet stream of which had 
made a wide green margin all along its course. Not 
a day passed by, that the world was not the better 5 
because this man, humble as he was, had lived. He 
never stepped aside from his own path, yet would 
always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost in- 
voluntarily, too, he had become a preacher. The 
pure and high simplicity of his thought, which, as one 10 
of its manifestations, took shape in the good deeds 
that dropped silently from his hand, flowed also forth 
in speech. He uttered truths that wrought upon and 
molded the lives of those who heard him. His audi- 
tors, it may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own 15 
neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an ordi- 
nary man; least of all did Ernest himself suspect it; 
but, inevitably as the murmur of a rivulet, came 
thoughts out of his mouth that no other human lips 
had spoken. 20 

When the people's minds had had a little time to 
cool, they were ready enough to acknowledge their 
mistake in imagining a similarity between General 
Blood-and-Thunder's truculent physiognomy and the 
benign visage on the mountain side. But now, 25 
again, there were reports and many paragraphs in 

24. Truculent. Fierce. 



62 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the 
Great Stone Face had appeared upon the broad shoul- 
ders of a certain eminent statesman. He, like Mr. 
Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native 
5 of the valley, hut had left it in his early days, and 
taken up the trades of law and politics. Instead of 
the rich man's wealth and the warrior's sword, he 
had but a tongue, and it was mightier than both 
together. So wonderfull}^ eloquent was he, that 

10 whatever he might choose to say, his auditors had no 
choice but to believe him: wrong looked like right, 
and right like wrong; for when it pleased him, he 
could make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere 
breath, and obscure the natural daylight with it. His 

15 tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes 
it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled 
like the sweetest music. It was the blast of war — 
the song of peace; and it seemed to have a heart in 
it, when there was no such matter. In good truth, 

20 he was a wondrous man ; and when his tongue had 
acquired him all other imaginable success, — when it 
had been heard in halls of state, and in the^courts of 
princes and potentates, — after it had made him 
known all over the world, even as a voice crying from 

25 shore to shore, — it finally persuaded his countrymen 
to select him for the presidency. Before this time — 
indeed, as soon as he began to grow celebrated — his 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 63 

I admirers had found out the resemblance between him 
and the Great Stone Face; and so much were they 
struck by it, that throughout the country this distin- 
guished gentleman was known by the name of Old 
Stony Phiz. The phrase was considered as giving a 5 
highly favorable aspect to his political prospects; for, 
as is likewise the case with the Popedom, nobody ever 
becomes president without taking a name other than 
his own. 

While his friends were doing their best to make 10 
him president, Old Stony Phiz, as he was called, set 
out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of 
course, he had no other object than to shake hands 
with his fellow-citizens, and neither thought nor cared 
about any effect which his progress through the 15 

tountry might have upon the election. Magnificent 
reparations were made to receive the illustrious 
statesman; a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet 
liini at the boundary line of the State, and all the 
people left their business and gathered along the way- 20 
side to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. 
Though more than once disappointed, as we have 
seen, he had such a hopeful and confiding nature, 
that he was always ready to believe in whatever 
seemed beautiful and good. He kept his heart con- 25 
tinually open, and thus was sure to catch the bless- 
ing from on high, when it should come. So now 



64 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

again, as buoyantly as ever, lie went forth to behold 
the likeness of the Great Stone Face. 

The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with 
a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, 

5 which rose up so dense and high that the visage of 
the mountain side was completely hidden from Er- 
nest's eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood 
were there on horseback: militia officers, in uniform; 
the member of Congress; the sheriff of the county; 

10 the editors of newspapers ; and many a farmer, too, 
had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat 
upon his back. It really was a very brilliant spec- 
tacle, especially as there were numerous banners 
flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were 

15 gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the < 
Great Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one an-- 
other, like two brothers. If the pictures were to be^ 
trusted, the mutual resemblance, it must be confessed,! 
was marvelous. We must not forget to mention that 

20 there was a band of music, whicli made the echoes of 1 
the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud'l 
triumph of its strains; so that airy and soul-thrilling; 
melodies broke out among all the heights and hollows, , 
as if every nook of his native valley had found ai 

25 voice, to welcome the distinguished guest. But thai 
grandest effect was when the far-off mountain preci-- 
pice flung back the music; for then the Great Stonq 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 66 

Face itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant 
chorus, in acknowledgment that, at length, the man 
of prophecy was come. 

All this while the people were throwing up their 
hats and shouting, with enthusiasm so contagious that 5 
the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise threw 
up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loudest, 
''Huzza for the great man! Huzza for Old Stony 
Phiz! " But as yet he had not seen him. 

"Here he is, now!" cried those who stood near 10 
Ernest. ''There! There! Look at Old Stony 
Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and 
see if they are not as like as two twin-brothers! " 

In the midst of all this gallant array, came an open 
barouche, drawn by four white horses; and in the 15 
barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the 
illustrious statesman. Old Stony Phiz himself. 

" Confess it," said one of Ernest's neighbors to 
him, " the Great Stone Face has met its match at 
last! " 20 

ISTow, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of 
the countenance which was bowing and smiling from 
the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a re- 
semblance between it and the old familiar face upon 
the mountain side. The brow^ with its massive 25 
depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, 
were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of 



66 THE GEEAT STONE FACE 

a more than heroic, of a Titanic model. But the 
sublimity and stateliness, the grand expression of a. 
divine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain 
visage, and etherealized its ponderous granite sub- 
5 stance into spirit, might here be sought in vain. . 
Something had been originally left out, or had de- 
parted. And therefore the marvelously gifted states- 
man had always a weary gloom in the deep caverns i 
of his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its play- 
10 things, or a man of mighty faculties and little aims, , 
whose life, with all its high performances, was vague: 
and empty, because no high purpose had endowed itt 
with reality. 

Still, Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbows 
15 into his side, and pressing him for an answer. 

" Confess! confess! Is not he the very picture ofi 
your Old Man of the Mountain? " 

"No!" said Ernest bluntly, "~I see little or no 
likeness." 
20 " Then so much the worse for the Great Stonei 
Face! " answered his neighbor; and again he set up 
a shout for Old Stony Phiz. 

But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost 

despondent; for this was the saddest of his disappoint i|' 

25 ments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled thej 

prophecy, and had not willed* to do so. Meantimeijl 

the cavalcade, the banners, the music, and the baa 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 67 

'ouches, swept past him, with the vociferous crowd 
n the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the 
jrreat Stone Face to be revealed again, with the 
grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries. 

" Lo, here I am, Ernest! " the benign lips seemed 5 
to say. " I have waited longer than thou, and am not 
yet weary. Fear not; the man will come." 

The years hurried onward, treading in their haste 
on one another^s heels. And now they began to 
bring white hairs, and scatter them over the head of 10 
Ernest; they made reverend wrinkles across his fore- 
head, and furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged 
man. But not in vain had he grown old: more than 
the white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in 
his mind;, his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions 15 
that Time had graved, and in which he had written 
legends of wisdom that had been tested by the tenor 
of a life. And Ernest had ceased to be obscure. 
Unsought for, undesired, had come the fame which 
so many seek, and made him known in the great 20 
world, beyond the limits of the valley in which he 
had dwelt so quietly. College professors, and even 
the active men of cities, came from far to see and 
converse with Ernest ; for the report had gone abroad 
that this simple husbandman had ideas unlike those 25 
of other men, not gained from books, but of a higher 

1. Vociferous. Noisy 



68 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

tone, — a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if he had 
been talking with the angels as his daily friends. 
Whether it were sage, statesman, or philanthropist, 
Ernest received these visitors with the gentle sincerity 
5 that had characterized him from boyhood, and spoke 
freely with them of whatever came uppermost, or lay 
deepest in his heart or their own. While they talked 
together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine 
upon them, as with a mild evening light. Pensive 

10 with the fullness of such discourse, his guests took 
leave and went their way ; and, passing up the valley, 
paused to look at the Great Stone Face, imaginingj 
that they had seen its likeness in a human counte 
nance, but could not remember where. 

15 While Ernest had been growing up and growing- 
old, a bountiful Providence had granted a new poet 
to this earth. -'He, likewise, was a native of the 
valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a 
distance from that romantic region, pouring out his 

20 sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, 
however, did the mountains which had been familiar 
to him in his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the 
clear atmosphere of his poetry. jSTeither was the 
Great Stone Face forgotten, for the poet had cele- 

25 brated it in an ode, which was grand enough to have. 
been uttered by its own majestic lips. This man of| 
genius, we may say, had come down from heaven withi 



THE (5REAT STONE FACE 69 

wonderful endowments. If lie sang of a mountain, 
the eyes of all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur 
reposing on its breast, or soaring to its summit, than 
had before been seen there. If his theme was a 
lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown 5 
over it, to gleam forever on its surface. If it were 
the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of its dread 
bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the 
emotions of the song. Thus the world assumed an- 
other and a better aspect from the hour that the poet 10 
blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had be- 
stowed him, as the last, best touch to his own handi- 
work. Creation Avas not finished till the poet came 
to interpret, and so complete it. 

The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his 15 
human brethren were the subject of his verse. The 
man or woman, sordid with the common dust of life, 
who crossed his daily path, and the little child who 
played in it, were glorified if he beheld them in his 
mood of poetic faith. He showed the golden links 20 
of the great chain that intertwined them with an 
angelic kindred; he brought out the hidden traits of 
a celestial birth tliat made them worthy of such kin. 
Some, indeed, there were, who thought to show the 
soundness of their judgment by affirming that all the 25 
beauty and dignity of the natural world existed only 
in the poet's fancy. Let such men speak for them- 



70 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

selves, who undoubtedly appear to have been spawned 
forth by ]^ature with a contemptuous bitterness; she 
having plastered them up out of her refuse stuff, after 
all the swine were made. As respects all things else, 
5 the poet's ideal was the truest truth. <| 

The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. 
He read them, after his customary toil, seated on the 
bench before his cottage door, where, for such a 
length of time, he had filled his repose with thought, j 

10 by gazing at the Great Stone Face. And now, as he 
read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, 
he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on 
him so benignantly. 

" O, majestic friend," he murmured, addressing 

15 the Great Stone Face, " is not this man worthy to re-| 
semble thee ? " 

The face seemed to smile, but answered not a word. 
Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt sol 
far away, had not only heard of Ernest, but had medi- 

20 tated much upon his character, until he deemed noth- 
ing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught 
wisdom walked hand in hand with the noble sim- 
plicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, 
he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of: 

25 the afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great dis- 
tance from Ernest's cottage. The great hotel, which i 
had formerly been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was^ 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 71 

close at hand, but the poet, with his carpet-bag on his 
I, arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was 
I resolved to be accepted as his guest. 

Approaching the door, he there found the good old 
man, holding a volume in his hand, which alternately 5 
lie read, and then, with a finger between the leaves, 
looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face. 

" Good-evening," said the poet. " Can you give a 
traveler a night's lodging? " 

"Willingly," answered Ernest; and then he 10 
added, smiling, " Methinks I never saw the Great 
i. Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger." 

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he 
and Ernest talked together. Often had the poet 
held intercourse with the wittiest and the wisest, but 15 
never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts 
and feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, 
and who made great truths so familiar by his simple 
utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often said, 
seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the 20 
fields ; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fire- 
side; and, dwelling with angels as friend with 
friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, 
and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of 
lousehold words. So thought the poet. And 25 
Ernest, on the other hand, was moved and agitated 
by the living images which the poet flung out of his 



72 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

mind, and which peopled all the air about the cottagt 

door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive, 

The sympathies of these two men instructed them 

with a profounder sense than either could have at- 

5 tained alone. Their minds accorded into one strain 

'j 
and made delightful music which neither of them 

could have claimed as all his own, nor distinguished 
his own share from the other's. They led one an- 
other, as it were, into a high pavilion of their 
10 thoughts, so remote, and hitherto so dim, that they , 
had never entered it before, and so beautiful that they 
desired to be there always. 

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the 
Great Stone Face was bending forward to listen too. 
15 He gazed earnestly into the poet's glowing eyes. 

"Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?" he 
said. 

The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest 

had been reading. 

20 " You have read tliese poems," said he. " You 

know me, then, — for I wrote them." 

Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest 

examined the poet's features ; then turned toward the 

Great Stone Eace; then back, with an uncertain 

25 aspect, to his guest. But his cpuntenance fell; he 

shook his head, and sighed. 

" Wherefore are you sad? " inquired the poet. 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 73 

" Because/" replied Ernest, " all through life I 
have awaited the fulfillment of a prophecy; and, when 
I read these poems, I hoped that it might be fulfilled 
in jou." 

*' You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, 5 
" to find in me the likeness of the Great Stone Face. 
And you are disappointed, as formerly with Mr, 
Gathergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old 
Stony Phiz. Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You must 
add my name to the illustrious three, and record 10 
another failure of your hopes. For — in shame 
and sadness do I speak it, Ernest — I am not 
^\ (trthy to be typified by yonder benign and majes- 
tic image." 

" And why? " asked Ernest. He pointed to the 15 
Tolume; — " Are not those thoughts divine? " 

" They have a strain of the Divinity," replied the 
poet. " You can hear in them the far-off echo of a 
leavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest, has 
Qot corresponded with my thought. I have had 20 
grand dreams, but they have been only dreams, be- 
anse I have lived — and that, too, by my own choice 
— among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even 
—shall I dare to say it ? — I lack faith in the grandeur, 
;he beauty, and the goodness, which my own works 25 
are said to have made more evident in nature and in 
human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good and 



74 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

true, slioiildst thou hope to find me, in yonder image 
of the divine! " 

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with 
tears. So, likewise, were those of Ernest. 
5 At the hour of sunset, as had long been his fre- 
quent custom, Ernest was to discourse to an assem- 
blage of the neighboring inhabitants, in the open air. 
He and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as 
they went along, proceeded to the spot. It was a 

10 small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice be- 
hind, the stern front of which was relieved by the 
pleasant foliage of many creeping plants, that made 
a tapestry for the naked rock, by hanging their fes- 
toons from all its rugged angles. At a small eleva- 

15 tion above the ground, set in a rich framework oi 
verdure, there appeared a niche, spacious enough tc 
admit a human figure, with freedom for such gestures 
as spontaneously accompany earnest thought anc 
genuine emotion. Into this natural pulpit Ernest 

20 ascended, and threw a look of familiar kindness 
around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, or re 
clined upon the grass, as seemed good to each, witl 
the departing sunshine falling obliquely over them 
and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with the sol 

25 emnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amic 
the boughs of which the golden rays were constraine(j 
to pass. In another direction was seen the Greal 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 75 

Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the 
same solemnity, in its benignant aspect. 

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what 
was in his heart and mind. His words had power, 
1 ■cause they accorded vdth his thoughts; and his 5 
thoughts had reality and depth, because they har- 
monized with the life which he had always lived. It 
was not mere breath that this preacher uttered; they 
Avere the words of life, because a life of good deeds 
and holy love was melted into them. Pearls, pure 10 
and rich, had been dissolved into this precious 
draught. The poet, as he listened, felt that the being 
and character of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry 
than he had ever written. His eyes glistening with 
tears, he gazed reverentially at the venerable man, 15 
and said Avithin himself that never was there an aspect 
si) worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, 
thoughtful countenance, with the glory of white hair 
ditfused about it. At a distance, but distinctly to be 
seen, high up in the golden light of the setting sun, 20 
appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists 
around it, like the white hairs around the brow of 
Ernest. Its look of grand beneficence seemed to em- 
brace the world. 

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought 25 
which h& was about to utter, the face of Ernest 
assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with 



76 THE GREAT STONE FACE 

benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, i 
threw his arms aloft and shouted: 

" Behold ! Behold ! Ernest is himself the like- 
ness of the Great Stone Face! " 

5 Then all the people looked, and saw that what the 
deep-sighted poet said was true. The prophecy was| 
fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he hadl 
to say, took the poet's arm, and walked slowly home-- 
ward, still hoping that some wiser and better mani 

10 than himself would by and by appear, bearing a re-|- 
semblance to the Great Stone Face. 



LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 

Daffydowndilly was so called because in his 
nature lie resembled a flower, and loved to do only 
what was beautiful and agreeable, and took no delight 
in labor of any kind. But, while Daffydowndilly was 
yet a little boy, his mother sent him away from his 5 
pleasant home, and put him under the care of a very 
strict schoolmaster, who went by the name of Mr. 
Toil. Those who knew him best affirmed that this 
Mr. Toil was a very worthy character; and that he 
had done more good, both to children and grown 10 
people, than anybody else in the world. Certainly 
he had lived long enough to do a great deal of good; 
or, if all stories be true, he had dwelt upon earth 
ver since Adam was driven from the garden of Eden. 

!N^evertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly 15 
countenance, especially for such little boys or big men 
as were inclined to be idle; his voice, too, was harsh; 
and all his ways and customs seemed ve^y disagree- 
,ble to our friend Daffydowndilly. The whole day 
ong, this terrible old schoolmaster sat at his desk 20 
overlooking the scholars, or stalked about the school- 
'oom with a certain awful birch rod in his hand. 



78 LITTLE DAFFYDOAVNDILLY 

Now came a rap over the shoulders of a boy whom 
Mr. Toil had caught at play; now he punished a 
whole class who were behindhand with their lessons; 
and, in short, unless a lad chose to attend quietly and 

5 constantly to his book, he had no chance of enjoying 
a quiet moment in the schoolroom of Mr. Toil. 

'" This will never do for me," thought Daffydown-j 

dilly. 1 

ITow, the whole of Daffydowndilly's life hadl 

10 hitherto been passed with his dear mother, who had ai 
much sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and who hadl 
always been very indulgent to her little boy. Noj 
wonder, therefore, that poor Daffy do wndilly found! 
it a woeful change, to be sent away from the good! 

15 lady's side, and put under the care of this ugly-f 
visaged schoolmaster, who never gave him any apples^ 
or cakes, and seemed to think that little boys were 
created only to get lessons. 

" I can't bear it any longer," said Daffydowndilly. 

20 to himself, when he had been at school about a week. 
" I'll run away, and try to find my dear mother; and^ 
at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so dis- 
agreeable as this old Mr. Toil! " 

So, the very next morning off started poor Daffy- 

25 downdilly, and began his rambles about the worldJ 
Avitli only some, bread and cheese for his breakfast! 
and very little pocket-money to pay his expenses.^ 



LITTLE PAFFYDOWNDILLY 79 

But he had gone only a short distance, when he over- 
took a man of grave and sedate appearance, who was 
trudging at a moderate pace along the road. 

" Good-morning, my fine lad," said the stranger; 
and his voice seemed hard and severe, but yet had a 5 
sort of kindness in it; '' whence do you come so early, 
and whither are you going? " 

Little Dalfydowndilly was a boy of very ingenuous 
disposition, and had never been known to tell a lie, in 
all his life. J^or did he tell one now. He hesitated 10 
a moment or two, but finally confessed that he had 
run away from school, on account of his great dis- 
like to Mr. Toil; and that he was resolved to find 
some place in the world where he should never see or 
hear of the old schoolmaster again. 15 

^' O, very Avell, my little friend! " answered the 
stranger. "Then we will go together; for I, like- 
wise, have had a good deal to do mth Mr. Toil, and 
f^liould be glad to find some place where he was never 
heard of." 20 

Our friend Daffydowndilly would have been bet- 
ter pleased with a companion of his own age, with 
whom he might have gathered flowers along the road- 
side, or have chased butterflies, or have done many 
other things to make the journey pleasant. But he 25 
had wisdom enough to understand that he should get 
along through the world much easier by having a 



80 LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 

man of experience to show him the way. So he ac- 
cepted the stranger's proposal, and they walked on 
very sociably together. 

They had not gone far, when the road passed by a 
5 field where some haymakers were at work, mowing 
down the tall grass, and spreading it out in the sun to 
dry. Daffydowndilly was delighted with the sweet 
smell of the new-mown grass, and thought how much 
pleasanter it must be to make hay in the sunshine, 

10 under the blue sky, and with the birds singing sweetly 
in the neighboring trees and bushes, than to be shut 
up in a dismal schoolroom, learning lessons all day 
long, and continually scolded by old Mr. Toil. But, 
in the midst of these thoughts, while he was stopping 

15 to peep over the stone Avail, he started back and 
caught hold of his comj^anion's hand. 

" Quick, quick! " cried he. '' Let us run away, 
or he will catch us! " 

" Who will catch us? " asked the stranger. 

20 ''Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster!" answered 
Daffydowndilly. " Don't you see him amongst the 
hajmiakers ? " 

And Daffydowndilly pointed to an elderly man, 
who seemed to be the owner of the field, and the 

25 employer of the men at work there. He had stripped 
off his coat and waistcoat, and was busily at work in 
his shirtsleeves. The drops of sweat stood upon his 



LITTLE DAFFYDOWXDILLY 81 

lirow; but he gave himself not a moment's rest, and 
kept crying out to the haymakers to make hay while 
the sun shone. Xow, strange to say, the figure 
and features of this old farmer were precisely the 
-a me as those of old Mr. Toil, who, at that 5^ 
^-ery moment, must have been just entering his 
schoolroom. 

" Don't be afraid," said the stranger. " This is not 

]\Ir. Toil the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who 

was bred a farmer ; and people say he is the most dis- 10 

;i2Teeable man of the two. However, he won't 

'luble you, unless you become a laborer on the 

rm." 

Little Daffydowndilly believed what his companion 
said, but was very glad, nevertheless, when they were 15 
out of sight of the old farmer, who bore such a singu- 
lar resemblance to Mr. Toil. The two travelers had 
gone but little further, when they came to a spot 
where some carpenters were erecting a house. DafFy- 
downdilly begged his companion to stop a moment; 20 
for it was a very pretty sight to see how neatly the 
carpenters did their work, with their broad axes, and 
saws, and, planes, and hammers, shaping out the doors, 
and putting in the ^vindow-sashes, and nailing on the 
, clapboards ; and he could not help thinking that he 25 
iOuld like to take a broad-ax, a saw, a plane, and a 
lammer, and build a little house for himself. And 



82 LITTLE DAFFYDOWXDILLT 

then, wlien he should have a house of his own, old Mr, 
Toir would never dare to molest him. 

But, just while he was delighting himself with this 
idea, little Daffydowndilly beheld something that 
^ 5 made him catch hold of his companion's hand, all in 
a fright. 

" Make haste! Quick, quick! " cried he. " There 
he is again! " 

" Who? " asked the stranger, very quietly. 
10 " Old Mr. Toil," said Daffydowndilly, trembling. 
" There ! he that is overseeing the carpenters. 'Tis 
my old schoolmaster, as sure as I'm alive! " 

The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydowndilly 
pointed his finger; and he saw an elderly man, with a 
15 carpenter's rule and compasses in his hand. This per- 
son went to and fro about the unfinished house, meas- 
uring pieces of timber, and marking out the work that 
was to be done, and continually exhorting the 
other carpenters to be diligent. And wherever 
20 he turned his hard and wrinkled visage, the men 
seemed to feel that they had a taskmaster over them, 
and sawed, and hammered, and planed, as if for 
dear life. 

" O, no! this is not Mr. Toil, the -schoolmaster," 
25 said the stranger. " It is another brother of his, who 
follows the trade of carpenter." 

" I am very glad to hear it," quoth Daffydown- 



LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 83 

dilly; " but, if you please, sir, I should like to get out 
of his way as soon as possible." 

Then they went on a little further, and soon heard 
the sound of a drum and fife. DafFydowndilly 
pricked up his ears at this, and besought his com- 5 
panion to hurry forward, that they might not miss 
seeing the soldiers. Accordingly, they made what 
haste they could, and soon met a company of soldiers, 
gayly dressed, with beautiful feathers in their caps, 
and bright muskets on their shoulders. In front 10 
marched two drummers and two fifers, beating on 
their drums and playing on their fifes with might 
and main, and making such lively music that little 
Daffydowndilly would gladly have followed them to 
the end of the world. And if he was only a soldier, 15 
then, he said to himself, old Mr. Toil would never 
venture to look him in the face. 

" Quick step! Forward march! " shouted a gruff 
voice. 

Little Daffydowndilly started, in great dismay; for 20 
this voice which had spoken to the soldiers sounded 
precisely the same as that which he had heard every 
day in Mr, Toil's schoolroom, out of Mr. Toil's own 
mouth. And, turning his eyes to the captain of the 
company, what should he see but the very image of 25 
old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and feather on 
his head, a pair of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a 



84 LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 

laced coat on his back, a purple sasli round his waist, 
and a long sword, instead of a birch rod, in his hand. 
And though he held his head so high, and strutted 
like a turkey-cock, still he looked quite as ugly and 
5 disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in the 
schoolroom. 

" This is certainly old Mr. Toil," said Daffydown- 
dilly, in a trembling voice. *' Let us run away, for 
fear he should make us enlist in his company! " 

10 " You are mistaken again, my little friend! " re- 
plied the stranger, very composedly. " This is not 
Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who 
has served in the army all his life. People say he's 
a terribly severe fellow; but you and I need not be 

15 afraid of him." 

" Well, well," said little Daffydowndilly, " but, if ^ 
you please, sir, I don't want to see the soldiers any 
more." 

So the child and the stranger resumed their jour- 

20 ney ; and, by and by, they came to a house by the 
roadside, where a number of people were making 
merry. Young men and rosy-cheeked girls, with 
smiles on their faces, were dancing to the sound of a 
fiddle. It was the pleasantest sight that Daffydown- 

25 dilly had yet met with, and it comforted him for all , 
his disappointments. 

'' O, let us stop here," cried he to his companion; 



LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 85 

" for Mr. Toil will never dare to show his face where 
there is a fiddler, and where people are dancing and 
making merry. We shall be quite safe here! " 

But these last words died away upon Daffydown- 
dilly's tongue; for, happening to cast his eyes on the 5 
fiddler, whom should he behold again, but the like- 
ness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle-bow instead of a 
birch rod, and flourishing it \vith as much ease and 
dexterity as if he had been a fiddler all his life ! He 
had somewhat the air of a Frenchman, but still looked 10 
exactly like the old schoolmaster; and Daffy down- 
dilly even fancied that he nodded and winked at him, 
and made signs for him to join in the dance. 

" O, dear me! " whispered he, turning pale. " It 
seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the 15 
world. "Who could have thought of his playing on a 
fiddle!" 

" This is not your old schoolmaster," observed the 
stranger, " but another brother of his, who was bred 
in France, where he learned the profession of a fid- 30 
dler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally 
calls himself Monsieur le Plaisir; but his real name 
is Toil, and those who have known him best think 
him still more disagreeable than his brothers." 

" Pray let us go a little further," said Daffydown- 25 
dilly. " I don't like the looks of this fiddler, at all." 

22. Monsieur le Plaisir. Mr. Pleasnre. 



86 LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY ' 

Well, tliTis the stranger and little Daff jdowndilly | 
went wandering along the highway, and in shady 
lanes, and through pleasant villages; and whitherso- , 
ever they went, behold! there was the image of old 
5 Mr. Toil. He stood like a scarecrow in the corn- 
fields. If they entered a house, he sat in the parlor; 
if they peeped into the kitchen, he was there. He 
made himself at home in every cottage, and stole, 
under one disguise or another, into the most splendid 
10 mansions. Everywhere there was sure to be some- 
body wearing the likeness of Mr. Toil, and who, as 
the stranger affirmed, was one of the old school- 
master's innumerable brethren. 

Little Daffydowndilly was almost tired to death, 

15 when he perceived some people reclining lazily in a 

shady place, by the side of the road. The poor child 

entreated his companion that they might sit down 

there, and take some repose. 

" Old Mr. Toil will never come here," said he; 
20 " for he hates to see people taking their ease." 

But, even while he spoke, Daffydowndilly's eyes 
fell upon a person who assumed the laziest, and 
heaviest, and most torpid, of all those lazy, and heavy, 
and torpid people, who had lain down to sleep in the 
25 shade. Who should it be, again, but the very image 
of Mr. Toil! 

" There is a large family of these Toils," remarked 



J 



LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY 87 

ihe stranger. '' This is another of the old school- 
naster's brothers, who was bred in Italy, where he 
icquired very idle habits, and goes by the name of 
Signor Far Niente. He pretends to lead an easy life, 
3Ut is really the most miserable fellow in the family." . 5 

" O, take me back! — take me back! " cried poor 
ittle Daffydowndilly, bursting into tears. " If there 
fts nothing but Toil all the world over, I may just as 
well go back to the schoolhouse! " 

"Yonder it is — there is the schoolhouse!" said 10 
the stranger; for though he and little Daffydown- 
dilly had taken a great many steps, they had traveled 
In a circle, instead of a straight line. " Come ; we 
will go back to school together." 

There was something in his companion's voice that 15 
ittle Daffydowndilly now remembered; and it is 
trange that he had not remembered it sooner. Look- 
ing up into his face, behold ! there again was the like- 
ness of old Mr. Toil; so that the poor child had been 
En company with Toil all day, even while he was 20 
doing his best to run away from him. Some people, 
o whom I have told little Daffydowndilly's story, are 
f opinion that old Mr. Toil was a magician, and pos- 
essed the powder of multiplying himself into as many 
bapes as he saw fit. 25 

Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had learned 

4. Signor Far Niente. Mr. Do Nothing. 



88 LITTLE DAFfYDOWNBlLLY 

a good lesson, and from that time forward was dili- 
gent at his task, because he knew that diligence is \ 
not a whit more toilsome than sport or idleness. And 
when he became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he 
5 began to think that his ways were not so very disi 
agreeable, and that the old schoolmaster's smile of 
approbation made his face almost as pleasant as evenl 
that of Daffydowndilly's mother. 



THE END. 



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